


Come Over

by anonymouscactus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky's a Nice Guy, F/M, Neighbor!Bucky, sam is a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouscactus/pseuds/anonymouscactus
Summary: Here we go! A new series I have absolutely no business starting and yet, here we are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! A new series I have absolutely no business starting and yet, here we are.  


The elevator is rickety as it ascends, the gears and cranks squeaking ominously. Your lip stings from the endless assault of your teeth upon it, borne out of nerves that you’ll actually plummet to your death before even  _ stepping foot _ into your new apartment. The box in your hands is only the first of many, but fortunately, your brother, Clint, had kindly offered to help move you in with the help of his friend, Sam. They’re in the moving truck currently, sorting through the heavier items to bring up first.

The hallway in your building is nicer than you’d been expecting. Your rent was the cheapest on the market and you’d been expecting a ramshackle building that needed numerous repairs. Instead, it’s clean, the carpet spotless, and there’s an underlying scent of fresh paint beneath the smell of carpet cleaner. You suppose, barring the rickety elevator, that maybe this won’t be such a bad place to live after all.

The key doesn’t stick in the lock, and you don’t have to jiggle the knob to get the door to open. It glides across the hardwood in your new apartment like a knife through warm butter, gentle, smooth, and soundless. The apartment itself is spotless, and the wood floors, though pock-marked in some places, gleams beautifully in the natural light that spills through the windows. The walls are a soft, neutral grey that make the place brighter. 

You set down the box by the front door, which you leave open for the guys. Surely enough, you can hear Clint’s grumbled cursing as he and Sam bang and slam their way up the stairwell carrying who knows what. Moments later, they appear carrying your box spring between them. Both men are incredibly fit, but a sheen of sweat lines their foreheads as they pivot and enter your apartment.

“Damn, Y/N,” says Sam with a whistle as he glances around, “nice digs!”

You grin proudly as the two of them disappear into your bedroom. There’s a dull  _ thud _ as the box spring is set down on the wood floor.

“Definitely going to need to switch movie nights from my place to yours,” Clint notes as he sets his hands on his hips. “You pay like half the rent we do and you’ve got more room!”

“You paying for a new couch to fit all of you?” you scoff jokingly. Clint grimaces in reply, and you hum. “Thought so.”

The three of you head back downstairs together to reload, Sam and Clint grabbing the couch next and you taking up another large box. It’s on the third trip that the door just down the hall from yours opens and a massive brickhouse of a man steps out, hair tied back out of his face and wearing a t-shirt, running shorts, and a pair of sneakers. Tattoos twist and turn up the length of both arms. He startles when he turns and sees you, ripping the earbuds out of his ears.

“Sorry,” you offer with a sheepish smile, “didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Uh, n-no, no big deal.” His eyes drop to the box in your hands when you adjust your grip. “Moving in?”

“Mhm,” you grunt as you shuffle forward towards your open door. The man seems to snap to attention, steps forward, and reaches for the box. You sigh when its weight is gone, and your neighbor drops it beside the other box. He then turns to you, and you’re stricken for a moment at how  _ pretty _ his eyes are.

“James Barnes, but everyone calls me Bucky,” he says, extending a hand out to you. Jolting, you quickly shake his hand; it’s warm and encompasses the entirety of yours. Face warming, you clear your throat and drop his hand.

“Uh, Y/N. Thanks for the help with that.” You gesture towards the box.

“No problem.”  _ God he has a nice smile. _ “Do you need any more help?”

Before you can answer, your brother and Sam come through the doorway, bickering back and forth until they notice the body standing next to you. Comically, they both freeze, mouths open and eyes bouncing between you and Bucky.

“Oh, Clint, this is my new neighbor, Bucky. Bucky, my brother, Clint, and our friend, Sam.” The three men take turns shaking hands, and when Clint waves Bucky out the door to the moving van, Sam wags his eyebrows, points at Bucky’s broad back, and gives you a thumbs up that makes you slap your palm to your face.

With Bucky’s help, you’re done unloading the van much sooner and, despite Bucky’s obvious running attire, he accepts the beer you offer him, Clint, and Sam for their help. He seems to get along perfectly with your brother and Sam, though the latter keeps making weird gestures between you and Bucky. Each time you roll your eyes and busy yourself with your beer. 

“So, Y/N, what do you do for work?” Bucky asks, leaning back on the couch he and Clint rearranged. Clint grins proudly.

“My dear little sister here is about to start as Tony Stark’s assistant,” he answers for you, much to your embarrassment.

“Clint,” you hiss, cheeks flushing pink. Bucky’s eyes go wide and he leans forward in his seat.

“No way?! He’s like, a god among men! I mean, his tech is  _ unparalleled. _ ”

Both Sam and Clint groan when you eagerly reply, “You’re a fan? I started following him when he made that suit when I was, like ten!”

“Here we go,” Clint mutters, spluttering when you slap his chest in retaliation. “You two should get along fabulously, then. Sam, shall we?”

“Oh god, yes, if these two are going to talk about quantum physics and hari kari and all that other mumbo jumbo.”

You roll your eyes as the two of them stand, but you walk them to the door anyways. Hugging them both, you lightly slap the back of Sam’s head when he mouths ‘get his number’ with a subtle point to Bucky.

“It was nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Clint says with a little salute. You stand in the doorway and watch them go, turning when you hear rustling behind you.

“I should probably go, too,” Bucky says and wipes his hands on his shorts. Just as he finishes speaking, his phone pings, but he doesn’t immediately check it, opting to say goodbye to your first. “Thank you for the beer, and welcome to the building. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

His grin makes your stomach flip as it lights up his entire face, makes the corners of his vivid blue eyes crinkle. You swallow and nod shyly.

“Thank you for the help. I really appreciated it. I’ll see you around?”

“Definitely.” His grin widens if possible and it’s hell on your nerves. He gives you one last nod before he walks through the open door and saunters over to his apartment, disappears inside.

  
Once your own door is closed, you lean back against it and thud your head once, twice, against the wood. _ Fuck _ .


	2. Chapter 2

Your first day at Stark Industries goes perfectly. Tony is a little ... _ out there _ for lack of better terminology, but overall he was the perfect boss—not too needy except in his caffeine addiction. He doesn’t go easy on you, firing off press conferences and meetings and so many other events at you in some funny attempt to get you to slip up. You surprise him by repeating each event, date and time included, in perfect chronological order. Behind his sunglasses, his dark eyebrows raise.

Your lunch is taken at your desk as you fill in your new planner with all the events Tony had given you. Your entire month of September seems to be filled to the brim with meetings you’re required to sit on, presentations of new tech, and luncheons with other big conglomerates in the industry. It’s overwhelming, but you didn’t plunge yourself into massive student debt for  _ easy _ . 

You even get a chance to meet a few of your coworkers when you step out for coffee for both you and Tony. Unsurprisingly, he takes it black with two sugars. A brunette woman and a tall man with glasses stand in front of you in the coffee shop on the bottom floor of the building, and when she notices you, she smiles and turns around to fully face you.

“You must be Tony’s new assistant,” she says. Returning her smile, you nod and throw out a hand.

“Y/N.”

“Wanda. And this is Vis, he works in Finance for Stark Industries.” The tall man smiles too and instead of shaking your hand, he kisses the back of it. Wanda giggles at the surprised look on your face and lightly slaps Vis in the chest.

“Vis, don’t scare the poor girl on her first day.”

The two of them step up to the counter and order, and Wanda waits while you do the same. She pulls you into a light conversation, asking how your first day is going, what it’s like so far working for Tony, where you moved from, and you answer them all easily. Wanda seems to be an easygoing person, one you look forward to getting to know better. Vis is quiet, but he interjects here and there for clarification on some things or to ask you questions of his own.

Wanda works in Marketing for the company, a huge duty in your opinion, but she seems to like the responsibility. She’s funny and sweet, and the three of you get into the elevator together once you all have your coffees. After exchanging numbers and a promise for a night out together soon, you part ways. Tony’s on the phone when you step into his office after knocking lightly with your knuckles, and he waves you in while telling the person on the other line just where he can shove “such a bullshit offer”.

Your face must show your slight shock at Tony’s mannerism because he smirks and accepts the coffee you hold out to him, downing half of it in a single gulp. He jiggles the cup idly.

“Sometimes you gotta play a little hardball. I’m expecting his call back in about, oh, twenty minutes,” he boasts, spinning on his heel to saunter over to the workstation set up in his office. “So, new blood, why me?”

You’re momentarily surprised by the question; most of your day had been spent following Tony around and scribbling down notes, and now you find yourself put on the spot by his suddenly asking about you. Mentally you fumble for an answer, your confidence a little wobbly after the surprise wears off.

“Where else am I going to be part of the greatest technology to ever exist?” is the response you settle on, if only to stroke Tony’s wild ego a bit. He grins cheekily and sips at his coffee.

“I like you,” he mutters, as if to himself.

He asks you a few more personal questions about yourself, questions that weren’t answered in the interview he regrettably, so he says, could not be present for. It feels rather odd having this kind of rapport with your boss, but it definitely doesn’t feel like a bad thing. Your previous employers only cared about your being on time and getting your work done, but Tony seems to take an honest interest in your schooling, your experiences, and where you see yourself headed in the future.

“ _ Yikes _ ,” he yelps when he checks the Stark Watch on his wrist. “I didn’t mean to keep you so long. I’m sure you have some work to finish up before you go home.”

He says it with an apologetic smile behind his sunglasses, and the responding smirk you send him feels natural.

“Of course, Mr. Stark—”

“Ah, ah,  _ Tony _ , please. Mr. Stark makes me sound old and cynical.”

You snort. “Very well, Tony. If I don’t see you before I leave I’ll see you in the morning for our seven AM meeting with AIMTech.”

Winking quickly, you spin around and head back to your office, humming lowly but happily. Your first day at Stark Industries has gotten much better than expected and it puts a small spring in your step as you head back to your office.  _ Office. _ You can’t even believe that as a personal assistant you’re entitled to an actual  _ office _ as opposed to just a desk out in the open. But, from what you could gather from talking to Wanda, working for Stark Industries won’t feel like  _ work _ at all.

You finish keying in changes and adjustments to Tony’s schedule that you’ve received via email. Fortunately, your meeting the next morning remains unchanged, but you feel secure in staying on top of everything. There’s a comfort and a calmness that comes with strict, almost obsessive organization for you. Things feel complete, in their proper places, and so you spend the last fifteen minutes of your work day organizing and reorganizing your desk in a fashion that seems most efficient and less hectic. Your planner is within easy reach, and your computer calendar is pinned to your taskbar. You feel good, at home here, where you can keep someone else’s life perfectly organized.

You take the subway home, earbuds shoved in your ears and streaming the latest episode to the  _ My Favorite Murder _ podcast. Your feet are a little sore from your shoes, only slight relief when you shift your weight and readjust your feet inside them. The couch, a blanket, and some tea are desperately calling your name as you step off the subway and walking stiffly back to your apartment building. Your first real day in the city had been spent familiarizing and memorizing the routes to and from work so as not to be late for your first day. Now you know it perfectly and you greet the doorman to your building with a tired smile.

Your day was invigorating, but man, are you exhausted. Now that the pressure to be professional and keep focus is off, you allow your shoulders to drop with a sigh. The rickety elevator doors open with a squeak and you step inside and lean against the cool metal of the back wall.

Bucky is in the hallway when the doors open on your floor, looking like he’d just gotten home from work himself and on the phone. Your steps falter a little at the look on his face; it’s pinched, brows furrowed low over his eyes and jaw muscles jumping. You can’t hear him from the elevator where you wait, his voice is low and hurried and sharp. He’s arguing with someone, that much is obvious.

Carefully you step forward, acting as if you weren’t assessing him and his body language, and busy yourself with unlocking your door.

“Oh, hey.”

You look up and over at Bucky, who has ended his phone call apparently but still holds the device in his hand. His smile is faint, and you give him a small, tired one of your own.

“Hi Bucky. Long day?” He catches the quick glance you give his phone and huffs, shoves it roughly into his pocket as if he wants to forget to conversation that’s just taken place.

“Somethin’ like that. How about you? You look tired, doll.” You swallow at the pet name, the way it rolls off his tongue lighting something warm in your belly. It’s forgotten though when Bucky’s face brightens with realization. “Oh! Today was your first day with Stark wasn’t it? How’d it go?”

“It went very well actually. Tony Stark is...not who I imagined he’d be when I first applied to work for him. He’s better, but he’s definitely way more out there than I’d expected.”

The two of you shoot the shit back and forth for a few minutes longer, Bucky’s previous phone call nearly forgotten until it rings again and his face falls when he checks the caller ID. He wags his phone in the air as it continues to shriek.

“I should take this. Hey, um, maybe this weekend you can tell me all about your first week?” He looks shy when he asks, and it only serves to make your face flush crimson. “O-Only if you want to, that is. I’m sure you’re still trying to get settled in.”

“I’d love to,” you interject before he can go off on a nervous tangent. “Maybe you can come over for coffee and help me assemble some furniture?”

“Sure,” he replies softly and with a grin. He seems to have forgotten about his phone until its ringing shatters the small silence again, and he frowns. “I’ll see you, Y/N.”

“Bye Bucky.” You just get the words out before his door closes and the lock flips.

Sighing, you enter your own apartment and kick the heels off your feet, wiggle your toes to get some feeling back into them. Through the walls of your apartment, you can hear Bucky’s raised voice, though it’s still muffled enough that you can’t make out the words.

Truth is, you’ve heard Bucky arguing a lot the past few days. Despite only been here a week, you’ve come to enjoy having Bucky as a neighbor. He’s a tattoo artist, you’ve learned, which explains sometimes why he’s home or away at weird hours, and you’re not surprised to learn he designed his own tattoos. And aside from the recent conflict that seeps through your conjoined walls, he’s quiet and doesn’t do anything untoward that would have you calling the landlord. He says hi to you when he sees you in the hallway or at the mailbox, asks about your day, and goes on his merry way.

And because of all that you may have developed just a  _ teensy _ crush on the guy, for which you’ve scolded yourself because how could you possibly like a guy you’ve known, barely, a week?

With a small grunt, you head to the kitchen for a hefty glass of much deserved wine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos on the last chapter!  
Enjoy this next segment! x

A month into your new life in New York, you feel more settled in. Your apartment doesn’t look like a warehouse piled high with boxes, and you’ve even spent some of your signing bonus on artwork to hang on the walls and a few plants to bring some life to the space. You’re even considering getting a cat.

At work, you frequently eat your lunch with not only Wanda and Vis, but the three other women on your floor. Maria, Charlotte, and Sarah are all mothers, so they don’t usually attend the girls’ night out you and Wanda plan every week, but they’re still pleasant to sit and chat with regardless. It’s made you feel even more at home at Stark Industries.

Speaking of, Tony is a  _ riot _ , you’ve learned. You’ve come out of your shell a little more with each day you work for him, and it’s mostly in thanks to Tony’s easy-going personality. Though he’s clearly a workaholic on top of being addicted to caffeine (for anyone else this might’ve been a destructive combination but Tony seems to wield both extremely well), he feels more like a weird brother/father figure than a boss. He keeps most projects secret from you, but occasionally he’ll show you a new update or ask for your opinion as a consumer. You’re honest with him without kissing his ass too much about it.

Since he lives closer, Sam comes over a couple times a week to hang out with you and catch up on your favorite shows. He tries to bring Clint with him most times, but being neck-deep in a new case makes it hard for him to get away to visit. You settle for FaceTiming him during the week even though it isn’t the same.

It’s one of your weekly nights with Sam, who reclines in your new armchair with his feet up and an open beer in his fist. You’re catching up on  _ Mindhunter _ with him, relaxed on the couch under a big fluffy blanket with your own beer. In between episodes Sam has been telling you all about the girl he’s been seeing, to which you demand you meet her for approval.

He rolls his eyes and asks, “Isn’t that  _ my _ job?”

You scoff. “You’re my best friend, Sam, and as my best friend, I’ve got to make you’re taken care of just as much as you’re taking care of her.”

He grumbles under his breath but you can see a slight pinkness to his dark skin that makes you smirk in victory. A few moments of silence and then:

“So what about you and Neighbor Boy then? What’s going on there?” While your smirk drops, his widens. You take a long pull from your beer.

“Absolutely nothing, Sam.”

He snorts and gestures with his beer. “You have coffee dates almost every week!”

“He helps me put furniture together! There’s absolutely  _ nothing _ but friendship there, I assure you.”

A doubtful look characterized by lowering of his eyebrows and pursed lips. A responding eye roll and scrunched up face, a silent  _ don’t give me that look _ .

“Want another?” you ask, needing to busy yourself in order to keep your unusually attractive neighbor  _ out _ of your head. Throwing the blanket off your lap, you stand up and accept the empty bottle Sam holds out to you.

If he notices that you take a little longer to fetch two more beers, he doesn’t say anything when you get back to the couch. He presses ‘play’ on the remote and the topic of your neighbor is dropped.

For an hour.

“So, you’re coming next Sunday for our football party right?” Sam asks.

Once a month during football season, Sam and Clint co-host a party at your brother’s apartment. You make your five-layer chip dip and Sam brings a massive amount of wings while Clint provides endless beer and a giant wrap-around couch that seats eight. (You’re still not sure how he fit the damn thing in his apartment.) To antagonize Clint and to make the day a little more fun, you and Sam always show up in your matching Patriots jerseys representing the McCourty twins.

“Of course I’ll be there! I never miss it!” you reply with an incredulous look. Sam holds up his hands.

“Hey, just wanted to make sure you didn’t have any new furniture that needed assembling that day.” He chortles when you chuck the throw pillow under your hip at him and nail him in the chest. “I’m kidding. Mostly. But, uh, I was gonna say, if you wanted to invite him, you could. Not as a date, don’t you throw that bottle! Jesus. Crazy. Just, Clint and I think he’s cool and it’d be cool to have another dude around.”

You watch him for a few moments, see no trace of his earlier teasing, and sigh and relax back into the couch. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“All I ask.”

Sam, bless him, leaves you be about Bucky for the remainder of your evening together. When he’s gone, your mind can’t rest just yet, so you open up a new beer and put on a rerun of  _ CSI. _ You’ll regret staying up so late in the morning, but for now, you let your mind get sucked into the emotional episode of Warrick’s funeral.

Regret is a bitter bitch, and the next morning it comes in the form of a prominent headache paired with under-eye bags your makeup barely hides. A three-hour binge of  _ CSI _ definitely  _ wasn’t  _ your smartest move considering you’ve a fairly important meeting with Tony in about two hours. Hair tied back in a ponytail and makeup...done but slightly unsatisfactory, you slip into a black pencil skirt with a mustard blouse tucked in. Your feet slide into a pair of black pumps and you throw on a jacket to combat the cool October morning.

You know your face shows your exhaustion as you give yourself a final once over, but there’s not much you can do short of downing copious amounts of coffee. Tote bag slung over your shoulder, you head out of your apartment with a sigh. As you’re locking your door, the one next to yours opens, and Bucky steps out looking ten kinds of  _ delicious _ in his running gear, tattoos on full display thanks to his tight tank top.

You grunt when he tells you good morning, chuckles good-naturedly until he sees your eyes. Then he’s frowning in concern and you’re almost desperate to do anything to wipe it off. Such a man should  _ not _ be frowning.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” he asks, falling into step with you towards the elevator. You resist the urge to rub your eyes in order to preserve your makeup.

“Not really. Sam stayed till about ten and then I stayed up a little while longer. Guess I just couldn’t fall asleep.” To punctuate your sentence, a long yawn escapes. Bucky stands next to you in the elevator, close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him and it’s wholly distracting. “And I have a meeting in a couple hours and I’m not really sure how I’m going to get through it without dozing a few hundred times. Know anyone who can hook me up with a caffeine IV?”

He laughs, the sound echoing in the small space, and despite the warmth and your jacket you still suppress a shiver.

“I’m afraid not. Hey, do you have a few minutes? We can go get a cup now, if you want,” he offers, blue eyes boring into yours, and you nod before you can really think about it. His smile brightens up the entire elevator, and then he’s leading you with a hand on your back out into the lobby and finally out onto the street.

He takes you to a place between your apartment building and the subway, stands with his hands in his pockets as you both wait in line. Sam’s invite bounces around in your head, your nerves expressing themselves in the form of tapping your fingers on your arms, which are crossed over your chest.

Bucky and you order your respective drinks and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. Your hand on his arm stops him, has him looking down at you with those depthless blue eyes.

“I’ve got it,” you say softly with a small smile. He opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but you merely hand over some cash to the cashier. “You’ve helped me a ton this past month. Let me at least start paying you back with coffee.”

The blush that overtakes his face has your insides fluttering with giddiness. You have to bite your lip to keep back your grin, your entire body warming over the fact you’ve made this beautiful giant of a man  _ blush _ . As the two of you stand off to the side and wait for your orders, you feel a small boost in confidence.

“Hey Bucky, I was wondering—” You’re cut off by the shrill ringing of his phone. He sighs and pulls the device from his pocket, and if you hadn’t been eyeing him so closely, you’d miss the slight downward twitch of his mouth.

“Excuse me just one sec okay?” he says apologetically. When he looks up at you, you know he means it and you nod. He smiles tightly and walks off down the small hallway that leads to the bathrooms, accepting the call with a hushed “Hi”.

You wait patiently until the barista calls your name and Bucky’s, and you grab both cups and sip lightly from yours while Bucky’s on his call. You can see him in the hall, shoulders hunched and free hand swinging about as he gestures. That pinched look is on his face again and you feel a faint tug in your gut that has you wondering if you’re close enough friends to ask.

Before you can decide one way or another, he’s pulling his phone from his ear and shoving it back in his pocket.

“Sorry about that,” he sighs, accepting the coffee you hand to him with a close-lipped smile. He takes a long drink from it, wincing a little at the burn, and licks his top lip. It’s horribly distracting for a minute. “What were you going to ask me?”

“Oh, um, I was just wondering if you maybe—oh shit.” A quick glance down at your watch shows you’re going to be  _ late _ if you wait any longer. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get going otherwise Tony’s going to kill me with his newest project. Um, I’ll see you later?”

Bucky’s blue eyes are slightly widened in surprise at your sudden departure. “Y-Yeah, definitely. Maybe you can tell me about this new project.” It’s said with a wink that tickles your insides.

“Maybe. If I’m not sworn to secrecy. Bye, Bucky!”

“Have a good day at work. And thanks for the coffee!” he calls out as you fly out of the cafe.

Your exhaustion only worsens as the day goes on. The meeting you’d sat in on was nothing short of  _ boring _ —even Tony dozed off a few times, but only you’d taken notice because you were seated beside him and heard the  _ tiny _ little snores. Your planner had been filled with new doodles of suns, clouds, flowers, and a tiny little witch in the margins. You’re still unsure why you’d been required to attend this meeting; you have a pile of things on your desk that could have been done in the two hours you sat uncomfortably in your chair, listening to the other tech geniuses go back and forth on new design ideas.

By the time it’s time for you to leave, you feel dead on your feet, which are cramping in your shoes. Your neck, shoulders, and back are also killing you due to sitting in your chair and hunching over the screen built into your desk. The subway ride home has you almost falling asleep, lulled by the gentle swaying of the car and the four hours’ sleep you got the night before.

It’s a slow climb to your apartment, and as you pass Bucky’s door you hesitate. You never did get to ask him this morning and so, because you’re too damn tired to be shy, you turn and knock three times on his door. From behind the wood you can make out a scuffle, and then the door is yanked open and your mouth runs dry.

Bucky stands before you, shirtless and gleaming with sweat. He’s breathless, that broad chest heaving up and down. There’s a smattering of dark hair across his chest and beneath his navel that disappears into the band of his shorts. The hair on his head is mussed, as if he’d been sleeping or hand run his hands through it.

“Y/N,” he gasps. Crimson creeps up his neck and across his chest, stains his cheeks as well as he avoids looking at your eyes. He glances over his shoulder briefly before turning back to you, eyes cast down at the neckline of your blouse. “Wha-What are you, um, doing here?”

“I, uh, wanted to ask you if you wanted to come to my brother’s with me for the football game on Sunday?” you ask in an equally breathless rush.

Bucky seems surprised by the question and is about to answer when a second,  _ female _ voice calls from behind him, “James?”

A blonde head appears over his shoulder and the slender woman tucks herself under Bucky’s arm, looking equally as disheveled. You feel the color drain from your face even though it warms under the implication that you've... _ interrupted _ . There’s no question of what they’d been, or had about to have been, doing because the blonde’s hair is ruffled just like Bucky’s, her full lips red and kiss-bitten. Her blouse is untucked and unbuttoned.

You can’t take your eyes off her, nor she you as she lays a manicured hand on Bucky’s chest, a universal female power move that says  _ he’s mine _ .

Bucky looks as awkward as you feel, shifting from bare foot to bare foot even as his hand rests on the woman’s shoulder. He clears his throat and gestures with his free hand to the woman, whose eyes have not left your form and are currently on their third sweep of your entire figure.

“Uh, Y/N, this is Sharon.”

“His girlfriend,” Sharon interjects. A sideways tilt of her lips that you know means no good. She reaches out with that manicured hand for yours and you shake it quickly, dropping it as if it’s burned you.

In a way, it has. It’s burned you so badly on the inside that you want nothing more than to duck into your apartment with your tail between your legs. You can feel the flames licking at your gut, sliding up your esophagus to singe your throat. It’s bitter, the burn, and it puts a pressure in your throat and behind your eyes.

“Sharon, this is Y/N, our new neighbor I was telling you about.” He won’t look at you, focusing instead on the blank wall just over your shoulder.

His sudden refusal to look at you pairs badly with your embarrassment, from both interrupting and for ever thinking you might have a chance, and you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.


	4. Chapter 4

“Bucky, Sharon, this is my brother Clint and my best friend, Sam.”

The words are acrid as you say them, your throat constricting as if it wants to choke them back down. But you don’t, and you ignore Sam’s pointed look when you mention the words “Bucky’s girlfriend”.

Following your embarrassing event in the hallway, face aflame, you’d repeated your question, this time directing it at both of them rather than just Bucky. Sharon had agreed, and though you plastered on a smile, there was a sinking feeling in your gut. She’s nice enough, from what you’ve seen so far. But there’s an underlying tension between you.

At Clint’s, she plants herself between you and Bucky every chance she gets—in the kitchen as you socialize and on the couch when the game starts. You’re not dumb; you know she feels some sort of discomfort with you and Bucky being friendly with one another, and you idly wonder if this is who he’s always arguing on the phone with.

At first it’s uncomfortable sitting beside her and not saying a word, but then the beer and the excitement of the game kicks in and you kind of forget she’s there, she's so quiet. You, on the other hand, are on your feet with your brother and Sam and surprisingly Bucky, all yelling obscenities and orders at the players on the screen.

“Where’s the fucking flag?” you holler, gesturing at the TV. When the game continues with no penalty, you and Sam collectively groan. “Helmet to helmet and there’s no goddamn flag? These fucking refs!”

“That’s what you get when you support cheaters,” boasts Clint with a smirk. Bucky whistles lowly as you slowly turn a murderous glare to your brother.

“Careful, brother,” you warn, leaning across Sharon, who leans back as if you have an infectious disease, to point threateningly at Clint. “Don’t start a war you can’t finish.”

Clint cups his hands around his mouth and taunts, “My sister supports the Cheatriots.”

“Listen,” you say, rising from your seat again to tower over the group. Sam has his arms crossed and a look that says  _ you’re gonna get it _ , Bucky watches on with wide, curious eyes, Sharon looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else, and Clint merely waits with a teasing smirk and his arms crossed. “Spygate? Witch hunt. Honest mistake, whatever. It was bullshit. And Deflategate was the  _ biggest _ crock of shit to ever grace the NFL. Clearly nobody at that piece of shit organization has any idea what a goddamn fucking  _ gas law  _ is or how it even works! “May have been aware”— _ bullshit _ ! Brady missed four games and they  _ still _ won the goddamn Super Bowl. And goddamn, motherfucking Snowplowgate was a pathetic excuse at cheating. The Patriots haven’t done anything any more sacrilegious than any other team in the NFL. They just get the most shit because they have integrity and they  _ win _ . Six rings, asshole,  _ count em and eat shit. _ ”

Sam mimes a mic drop and a glance at Bucky shows he’s impressed, eyebrows raised high and icy blue eyes sparkling. Sharon looks between the two of you and you feel your face heat. Clearing your throat, you scoop up your beer, drain it, and step around the couch to head towards the kitchen.

“Excuse me.”

Unsurprisingly, Clint has followed you in; you can hear Sam and Bucky talking and laughing through the entryway. He leans against the counter next to the fridge as you dig around, shove a few chips from the bowl in your mouth.

“So I think Bucky just fell in love.”

You nearly choke on your chip as you sharply inhale. Coughing harshly, you wash it down with your newly opened beer and wait for your eyes to stop watering.

“Excuse me?”

Clint smirks and shrugs. “You heard me. Home boy looked about ready to propose.”

He’s speaking low enough that you won’t be heard, but still you crane your neck to look over his shoulder into the living room. Bucky and Sam are now sitting side by side on the couch, Sharon on the end scrolling through her phone. None of them seem to have heard anything.

You grunt. “You’re full of shit.”

He grins and shakes his head once. “With the way he was looking at you? No way.”

“I think you need your eyes checked, brother.” 

“Oh are we discussing the way Bucky practically undressed Y/N with his eyes after her tirade?” chimes Sam as he enters the kitchen. You hurry to shush him, slapping a hand over his mouth as you cast another look into the living room. Bucky and Sharon sit stiffly on the couch, exchanging hushed but frenzied words if Sharon’s expression is anything to go by. Bucky’s shoulders are tense as he leans his elbows on his knees, the taut muscles straining against his navy long-sleeve. 

What you don’t notice is the look that passes between Sam and Clint, matching smirks curving their mouths as you watch Bucky and Sharon in the midst of an obvious argument. You chew the inside of your cheek as Bucky leans back into the couch, shoulders relaxing, but only slightly. Sighing through your nose, you turn back to your brother and friend.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what we were discussing,” Clint finally answers with a cheeky little smile to which you roll your eyes.

“Whatever, guys. You both need your eyes checked. Pronto. Maybe your heads while you’re at it.” Behind you, they scoff, and you lead the way out of the kitchen.

Even without having witnessed an argument between the couple, you can feel the tension. Fortunately, halftime is over and the game resumes, just barely cutting through the negative atmosphere. Soon, you, Sam, Clint, and Bucky are all yelling at the television again.

Halfway through the fourth quarter, it’s a tie game and Sharon’s phone goes off. She checks it and begins to rise from the couch.

“I have some work to do,” she announces, shoving her phone back in her jacket pocket. She turns to Bucky, “We should go.”

He looks imploringly up at her and gestures to the TV with his beer. “There’s only eight minutes left. Can we stay? Or I’ll catch up to you? I just want to stay to the end.”

It unsettles you, the way he asks her, the trepidation in his voice. As if she were a bomb about to go off and not a person. You keep your gaze averted but your ears are open, as are Sam’s and Clint’s.

“I really think it’d be easier if you and I left together, James. I’m sure Y/N will tell you the outcome later.”

Though you can’t pinpoint why, the tone in which she says this has your grip tightening on your bottle. Just a fraction so that it’s unnoticed. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Bucky stare her down for a few beats too long before he sighs, sets down his beer a little harder than intended on the coffee table, and stands up.

Disappointment floods you, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face when Bucky announces they have to leave. Sharon’s watching him like a hawk when he says goodbye to Clint, Sam, and finally, you, leaning over you to hug you—if you can call it that. He barely touches you, and you know it must be because Sharon’s narrowing her eyes at the two of you. He straightens, shoulders and smile stiff, and then the two of them are gone.

“Aight,” Sam says a few moments later in the quiet of the living room, “I’m just gonna say it, she’s such a bitch.”

“Wow, she sounds like a bitch,” Wanda observes the next day at work. You’re on lunch in the cafe on the bottom floor, and you’d told her all about your interesting weekend. Like your brother and Clint, she’s convinced Bucky has a thing for you despite his...wonderful girlfriend. 

“You’re telling me. Obviously she’s got some insecurity issues going on. She would  _ not _ let me near him at all. I thought she was going to burn holes in my head when he hugged me goodbye.”

Wanda grimaces and sticks a French fry in her mouth. “Yikes. You said you hear him arguing a lot? You think it’s with her?”

Snorting, you nod with an incredulous expression. “I’m almost positive it’s her. I can never hear exactly what he’s saying, but if yesterday was anything to go by, they fight a lot. Poor Bucky. He’s always so  _ nice _ . How could he be with someone so... _ not _ ?”

“Maybe they weren’t always like that, you know? Maybe this is all a recent development.”

You hum thoughtfully, eyes losing focus as you zone out for a few minutes. Your Stark watch beeps, signalling the end of your lunch. Sighing, you stand up from your seat and Wanda follows. After dumping your trash, you head back to the elevator.

Truth is, you feel bad for Bucky. And for Sharon...kind of. But only in the way that something has happened to her to make her see anyone and everyone as a threat to their relationship. It isn’t healthy, and you know Bucky’s smart enough to know it, too. But what could you do? You aren’t close enough with him to advise him to end it, and sitting idly by while she controls him feels wrong.

You think so much and so hard about it you get a headache. Fortunately, you have enough work on your plate to keep yourself occupied.

Later that evening, back in your apartment, you’re about to settle in for the new Dateline episode with a glass of wine when an all-too-recognizable moan is heard through the shared wall of yours and Bucky’s apartments. You grimace at the same time your heart drops, and you pull heavily from the wine glass and turn up the TV.

If at all possible, Sharon seems to get louder, more high-pitched the higher your volume goes. 

_ Guess they made up _ , you type bitterly to Sam.  _ Sharon’s wailing like a banshee. _

You know it’s another territorial move on her part, and you can’t help but wonder if Bucky knows that as well. He’s far quieter, so much so you can’t even  _ hear _ him over the whines of Sharon.

Your phone pings.

_ Awkward, _ Sam types back,  _ need to escape? _

_ Tempting. But I have an early start tomorrow. _

Your date with Dateline gets cut short when they go for round two.

The next morning is...awkward, to say the least. Bucky’s dressed casually, no doubt for work, while Sharon hangs off him in the doorway. She’s giggling, and even Bucky has a grin on his face. When he notices you walking towards them, eyes pointed straight ahead because it’s awkward enough having heard them last night, his face goes bright red. You wait for the elevator, foot tapping and mind silently telling it to  _ hurry the hell up _ because you really don’t want to be stuck in an elevator with Bucky.

But luck is not on your side and you hear his door close just as the elevator doors slide open. Bucky’s feet thud on the hallway carpet as he jogs to catch the elevator, and you’re almost ashamed to admit you very nearly press the ‘Door Close’ button on him. But he shoves an inked arm through and slides inside, leans against the wall adjacent to you.

He’s still as red as a tomato as he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his boots. The air in the elevator tense and thick and it nearly makes you choke. Your heart thuds in your chest as you shift from foot to foot, even pull out your phone and scroll through social media in order to escape the awkwardness.

“I, uh, want to apologize if you heard us last night,” he stammers, that blush of his creeping down his neck and up to his ears. He’s rubbing the back of his neck when you glance over at him, give a small shrug to play it off like you’re indifferent. “Sharon can be... _ passionate _ .”

Internally, you wince.  _ Didn’t really need to know that _ . But instead you respond with, “Glad you two seemed to work out whatever was up with you on Sunday.”

Bucky flinches and frowns deeply, taking to scratching at the light stubble on his jaw now. “You noticed that huh?”

He sighs when you nod. “Sharon’s…away for work a lot. It kind of puts a strain on things.”

For reasons unknown to you, you feel a small rise of irritation as the elevator touches down on the ground floor, and you sneer, “Well, I’m glad you both have the  _ passion _ to sort out your issues.”

You can tell Bucky’s watching you wide-eyed and confused as you saunter out of the elevator, and even you can’t quite tell where the urge to snap at him had come from. His ignorance to acknowledge his girlfriend has security issues? The fact that he’d kept his neighbor up until almost midnight  _ sorting out  _ their issues? Or perhaps it’s just your unreasonable, growing jealousy that  _ Sharon  _ gets to know what he sounds like under those particular circumstances. Gets to see every expression that passes over his face or the way his body reacts to minute little teasing.

God, you’re so  _ fucked _ .


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of October passes by in a chilly blur and in surprising quiet. It’s because, you learn, that Sharon is away again for work. You can’t help but notice the change in Bucky; he smiles more, doesn’t appear to walk on eggshells with anything, and you’re back to your regular coffee dates. You know it should set off alarm bells in your head that he’s so closed off when she’s around, but then you realize Bucky probably doesn’t have a lot of friends due to Sharon’s obvious insecurities and probable control issues. So you ignore it, allow yourself to feel bad that the only time Bucky can be himself is when she’s away.

The tension from the month before is gone, and so you choose  _ not _ to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bucky’s apologized again and again for obviously upsetting you by being loud, and you find no choice but to accept each one when he looks at you with those goddamn eyes.

It’s during one of your weekend coffee dates that Bucky opens up a little bit more. About himself, his relationship, how Sharon went from being an amazing woman when they first started dating to now, where he barely recognizes her most days. 

“Her jealousy is out of control,” he sighs, shaking his head. He looks off to the window in your kitchen, lost in his head as if he’s trying to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship took a nosedive. Unthinking, you reach across the table and lay your hand on his and his eyes snap to first you and then your joined hands.

“Have you talked to her? See if you can find out why she’s started being like this? There has to be a reason…”

You can see the minute Bucky gets defensive; his jaw locks and he sits up, yanks his hand out from under yours. “I haven’t cheated, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t insinuating anything, Bucky. I was just asking. Sometimes these kinds of issues are deep-seated and stay dormant for a while before coming out. When did you start noticing her jealousy spiking?”

He blows out a breath and shakes his head, his long hair hanging in his face. You have to clench your fist to resist reaching out and brushing it aside. Bucky leans forward on your small table, chin resting on his hands as he thinks. His eyes light up in realization and he seems almost bashful now. Your curiosity piques.

“A-About the time you moved in,” he admits quietly, and then hurries to add, “I-I-I mean, there were other, smaller instances, I guess. But it was just, you know, her arm around my waist or some sudden PDA. Nothing huge. But, god don’t take this the wrong way, but when I told her you’d moved in, it’s like some kind of flip was switched. We ended up fighting about it.”

“I...I heard,” you mutter, twirling your coffee mug. Bucky looks horrified and you hurry to placate him. “I couldn’t hear specifics. Just...just your raised voice, that’s all.”

Groaning, he slides a hand down his face. “Some neighbor I am, huh?”

You smile sadly and shake your head. “Bucky, you’re a great neighbor. People argue. It’s fine.”

He meets your eyes, gratitude shimmering within the blue depths, and his gaze holds you there. Heart beating erratically in your chest, you realize this is a  _ moment _ . It’s magnetic, the pull between you, and it takes an exorbitant amount of effort to break the stare and shatter the tension. Bucky shifts in his seat and focuses on his coffee cup.

“More coffee?” you ask because you need to fill the silence with  _ something _ . At his nod, you scoot back from the table and refill both mugs. Take your seat and try to bring back some lightness to the room. “So Thanksgiving is coming up. You and Sharon have any fun plans?”

He scoffs bitterly as he stirs his coffee. Body rigid and an eye roll barely suppressed. “She’s away for work so, I’m on my own.”

“For Thanksgiving? That’s unacceptable. You should come spend it with my family. Clint will be there, and maybe Sam. I’m sure they’d love to have you.”

The invitation is out before you can really think too much on it. It feels natural, asking him to join you. Feels  _ too _ natural if you let yourself think on it, but you don’t. It’s out there between you and you watch Bucky for his reaction.

He’s surprised. But he wants to say yes, you can see it on his face, but he shakes his head. “I couldn’t intrude on your family like that.”

It saddens your heart to think Bucky would be intruding. For people who aren’t  _ really _ that close, you’ve shared a lot of personal baggage between you, and the thought of Bucky spending a holiday meant to be spent with family alone hardens your resolve. You won’t accept ‘no’,  _ can’t _ . Not when Sharon doesn’t seem to care about being home with him.

“You won’t be.” You’re sure of this. Clint loves Bucky, and you’re damn sure the rest of your family will too. “You’re coming with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Got it?”

Bucky thinks better of arguing with you. Sighs and nods his head like an obedient child but with a quick smile that says he’s grateful for the invitation. The two of you settle back into your chairs, the air between you both light but with a lurking tension that bubbles just beneath the surface.

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are hectic, manic, whatever word that describes ultimate _ bedlam _ you prefer. Stark Industries is closing on a new deal to allow for human trials of a new “super-suit” Tony has dubbed it, and it’s crucial that all ducks are in their designated rows to minimize liability risks. It’s a tornado of paperwork, phone calls with lawyers and insurance companies, emails back and forth with the physicists assigned to the project.

It’s a mess, and it leaves you haggard, exhausted, and more than a little cranky. You’ve accidentally snapped at Wanda more times than you can count, and if you hadn’t been paying attention,  _ Tony  _ might’ve been at the end of one of your fits as well. Fortunately, you’d just managed to catch yourself after he’d reminded you—again—about the write-up due to the project managers before the holiday.

It’s late the Tuesday before the holiday when you return home—nearly eight o’clock, and you’re about ready to collapse. You feel drunk on exhaustion as you stagger down the hall barefoot, your stupid heels hanging over your index finger. Eyelids heavy, like two lead weights are weighing them down, you stifle a yawn in your elbow. One of your heels goes clattering to the floor.

“Fuck,” you hiss, groaning long and loud as you bend over to retrieve it and your back protests the movement. You don’t realize you’re in front of Bucky’s door until it opens, and your neighbor, in all his pajama-clad muscled glory, frowns down at you.

“Y/N? What the hell happened to you?”

You sigh and close your eyes, lean your head against your knee. “Thanks, Buck. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He rolls his eyes before stooping to wrap a hand around your arm. Gently he helps you to your feet, and you can’t help it when you stagger just slightly into his body.

“Whoa, easy there,” he coos, steadying you. His body is unnaturally warm where it presses up against yours and for a second, you let yourself bask in the heat. A moth to a flame. Wings scorched, but you’ll gladly burn.

“Sorry,” you sigh after a few moments, shaking your head, “it’s been a busy past couple of weeks and I’m about ready to collapse.”

“C’mon, gimme your keys. Let’s get you inside.”

He slides your keychain from your hand, opens your door, leads you in. You whine at the sight of your couch, but before you can faceplant into the cushions, Bucky’s steering you away.

“B-But,” you stutter on a whine, reaching out dramatically, childishly, for the piece of furniture.

“Mm, nuh-uh. First, comfy clothes. Then I’m making you something to eat. And  _ then _ you’re going to bed.”

“Bucky.” You’re still whining, but you’re far too tired to care. Bucky sits you down on your bed, lunges forward when you tip backward in an attempt to climb under your duvet. He keeps you upright, and you pout. “ _ Bucky _ .”

“Patience. Which drawer is your pajama drawer?” He sighs when he glances over his shoulder, sees you curling up in your blankets in your work attire. Averts his eyes when your skirt rides halfway up your thighs.

“Third from the top,” is your sleepy, mumbled reply paired with a half-assed lift of your arm. The drawer slides open then shut, and you grunt as fabric hits you in the face.

“Get changed and meet me in the kitchen.”

“You’re awful bossy,” you snark as you sit up, but he’s gone, and you can already hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When you’re finished, you step out of your room to see Bucky bent over the stove with a box of pasta in his hand. He dumps the entire contents of the box into the pot, stirs, and then glances up when you appear in his line of vision. He smiles softly. 

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” you sigh as you sit at the island, dig your hands into your eyes as if to ward off said exhaustion. “We’re ready to move onto trials with one of the suits and Tony’s been running me ragged but fortunately he gave me tomorrow off because of the holiday Thursday so…”

“Good. You should rest a lot tomorrow.”

“You’re still coming Thursday, right?” you ask tentatively. You’re trying not to come across too eager, but Bucky’s sly little grin tells you you kind of failed.

“Of course. It’s definitely better than spending it alone.” There’s a bitter undertone in his voice, but he’s moving on before you can press on it.

You eat in the living room; Bucky throws on some true crime documentary that only holds your attention for about ten minutes. Between the comfy clothes, the blanket you’re under, and the warmth of the food in your belly, you’re out like a light, head cocked uncomfortably against the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over, does a double take and smiles softly. Mouth open, eyelids fluttering. It shouldn’t make his heart race, yet he thinks it might give out with how fast it’s beating, how his chest vibrates with its beat. He gently grabs the nearly-empty bowl from your limp fingers, which curl up and into the blanket, tucking it under your chin as you roll over and shove your face into the back cushion of your couch.

It’s endearing, despite the deep circles Bucky can see even in the dimmed lighting in the room. Setting both bowls on the coffee table, he wipes his hands on his sweatpants; he’s nervous, has never been  _ this _ close, much less in such a vulnerable situation. Your warm against him as he scoops you up; his conscience would never let him rest if he’d left you to sleep on the couch. He  _ feels _ his heartbeat stutter when you curl into him like you’d curled into your blanket, nose buried against his chest. He hopes the rapid  _ thudthudthud _ of his heart doesn’t wake you, prays you stay oblivious to the way you’re making him feel. Your nightshirt slides up and his fingers touch your bare skin. It’s like setting fire to flint—a spark, and then all-consuming flame as it slithers and writhes up his arm and into his belly, his chest. He knows his cheeks are a thousand shades of red; he’s never had such a visceral reaction to touch before, even when he’d met Sharon and still knew who she was. 

He side-steps into your room, avoids bonking your head or your dangling feet against the frame. Blankets pulled back, your soft and pliant body laid underneath. A soft sigh that slides between your parted lips, a content smile as you roll onto your belly, tug your second pillow to your chest, a visible deflate. Bucky’s immobile, feet planted so firmly into your floor he wonders if he’d grown roots there. He knows he should leave, knows he’s a creep for remaining unmoving, but he can’t look away from you.

Your eyelids still flutter, your mind lost in some dream that he’s yearning to hear about. How did he fall so deeply?

  
Like dragging lead through water, he begins to walk from your room, freezes when your lips mumble out something that sounds oddly like  _ Bucky _ . He swallows around the lump in his throat, the rising guilt in his belly that burns like acid. He leaves the door open a crack, cleans your empty bowls, and leaves because he can’t bare the gnawing in his gut, the want, the longing, the absolute  _ need _ for you to destroy him.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky is early the morning of Thanksgiving. The knock itself is quiet, as if he’s pulled his knuckles back too soon. Still it startles you, has your hand jumping and nearly impaling your eye with the mascara wand.

A hissed “dammit”, you set it down, double-check your eye that it hadn’t smeared, hurry to the door as that soft knock sounds again. All the air leaves your lungs in a  _ whoosh _ . Being his neighbor, you’ve seen him in various states of dress, but never like  _ this. _

Hunter green looks good on him, you decide. The satiny material looks about ready to give where it’s stretched across his broad chest. A flat plain of forestry you want to trace and memorize with hands and tongue. Dark charcoal dress pants wrap tightly around his thick thighs, and your mouth waters. Shiny black dress shoes cap off the outfit. Your neighbor is a tall drink of water and goddamn are you  _ parched _ . Subconsciously you lick your lips.

His clearing throat jostles you, eyes snapping up to his. They’re glittering, those crystalline eyes of his that pull you in like a lighthouse beacon. The edge of his mouth is turned upward, a sure sign that you’ve been caught ogling him, too lost in the beauty of him to notice he’d done the same to you.

You cough lightly, poorly covering yourself. “You’re early. C’mon in. I’ll be done in twenty.”

His body brushes by yours as you step to the side, cocoons you in his warmth and a clean, fresh scent with a hint of spice. Eyes flutter closed, deep breath in and then out to compose yourself, give yourself the confidence to get through today without ending up a puddle on the floor. Bucky’s seated on the couch, flipping through a magazine with Tony Stark on the cover. It’s the newest issue—the first publication of the upcoming “super suit” demo and he flips right to it, already engrossed.

You duck past him back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. A few more touches to your makeup, a pair of black tights, black boots, and a light jacket, and you’re ready. Bucky turns his head when he hears your heels on the floor, eyes widening just a fraction, but you notice. You notice everything when it comes to him. He rises slowly, and it’s almost comical. Like that scene in a teen romance where the girl, in her beautiful prom dress, descends the stairs and her date is rendered speechless, jaw dropped, eyes full of adoration.

“You, uh.” Voice cracks, clears his throat, tries again. “You look really nice.”

Your smile is easy, gentle, a little bashful as your cheeks flush. “Thanks, Bucky. Shall we?”

His answering grin is just as bright, just as easy, as  _ natural _ . He holds out his elbow. “We shall.”

The drive to your parents’ is spent chatting back and forth, mostly about the new projects you’re allowed to talk about. Bucky’s enthusiasm is addicting, makes it easy for you to just keep going. You almost feel badly about doing all of the talking, but the excitement on his face covers it up, and his responding questions are eager and hurried, like he can’t get them out fast enough. Conversation with Bucky is easy.  _ He _ makes it easy.

You’ll come to realize later that Sharon is far from both of your minds. So far, nothing could sour this day.

Clint and your family are extremely welcoming when the two of you arrive. Clint takes your coat and purse, claps Bucky on the back and leaves you to do the introductions. Your mother raises an eyebrow, aims it at the two of you and inquires how long Bucky’s been seeing her daughter. Matching blushes creep up your necks and without thinking, you take a step sideways, put space between you because you hadn’t realized just how close you’d been standing to him.

“Mom, we’re—we’re not dating. He, uh, he has—”

“I’m her neighbor,” Bucky interjects with a charming smile. The look on your mother’s face clearly says  _ yeah, right _ , but she moves the conversation along, asks Bucky about his work and gets lost in his stories about the tattoo shop.

Clint comes up behind you, where you’ve moved to the small bar in the kitchen and have poured yourself a hefty glass of wine. Judging by the sly, fleeting looks your mother sends you, you’re going to need it.

“Mom seems to be digging in the claws,” Clint murmurs, pulling from his beer. You hum around your wine glass. “She doesn’t buy the neighbor bit, does she?”

“How could you tell?” you deadpan. Despite your concern your mother will spill something she’s not meant to, you’re relieved Bucky seems to fit in with your family.

Your parents have hogged him mostly, though Clint’s stepped in here and there to help him along, but his eyes are never far from you. Every few minutes they’ll find you, sparkle under the dim kitchen lighting, before he looks away again to give your family his full attention again. Once or twice, he sends a wink that warms your body more than your wine does.  _ Oh boy,  _ are you in trouble.

Fortunately (or  _ un _ fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Sam arrives not too long after to break up the growing tension between Bucky and you. He greets Bucky excitedly, hugs him like he would a brother, offers him another beer from the fridge that Bucky accepts. The grin on Bucky’s face, the rumbling echo of his laughter, the lightness in his features all do horrible, horrible things to your belly and your heart, and you have to duck out of the room and find Laura, distract yourself, before you do something stupid.

She must see it on your face when you drop beside her on the couch in the living room. Cheeks rosy red, and not just from the wine, pupils dilated just a bit with a few tiny beads of sweat at your hairline. Laura and Clint had been together off and on since high school, until your brother manned up and proposed to her while out on their anniversary date. He’d taken her on a whale watch in Nantucket, something she’d always wanted to do. She said yes through a bout of sea sickness.

“You’ve got it bad,” she tsks, the ring on her left finger sparkling and tinkling against her wine glass. You groan.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why’s he with that she-witch again?”

You hurry to shush her, glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re not heard. “Jesus, Laura. I don’t know why, okay? From what he’s told me they don’t even click anymore. Except...in the bedroom, which I can hear usually.”

Laura’s frown is sympathetic, both for your ears and for your heart. It doesn’t really make you feel any better, and despite how close the two of you have grown since you moved in, you still haven’t quite found it within you to tell him to break it off. Sharon’s already wary of you, though whether that’s from her rising insecurity or because you’re not hiding your feelings as well as you think you are, you’re unsure. The last thing you want is to stick your nose where it’s not wanted.

You and Laura go back and forth, straying from the taboo topic of Bucky’s relationship, until the men enter the living room. Bucky grasps a fresh glass of wine for you. You can  _ feel _ Laura’s smirk from where you sit, hide your blush behind a long pull of the bitter red. Bucky sits beside you on the couch, close enough his thigh touches your knee where your leg is tucked up under you.

“Thank you,” you murmur once you’ve drained half the glass, tongue swiping over your top lip for the excess. You miss the slight dilation of his pupils, the way his chest rises with a deep inhale.

“Sure, doll.”

Your insides twist at the nickname and on the other sofa Laura smirks. Subtly, you flip her the bird and she snickers into her glass of water. Conversation buzzes between all of you, and you have to really focus on it instead of how warm Bucky is beside you. Maybe you should lay off the wine.

When your mother calls that dinner is ready, you’re the first one out of your seat. Clint makes a comment with a knowing grin.

“I’m hungry, dammit,” you snark back with a smirk. The others laugh a little, and you all find your seats.

Bucky pulls yours out for you before he takes his, a charming little side grin that sets your stomach to fluttering. You’re not sure if it’s just because the holiday has him in a good mood or if he’s purposely laying on the charm. Probably a bit of both.

He captures your attention over dinner, holds it as he converses with your family. You know your ‘heart eyes’ as Wanda would call them are on full fucking display, but it’s getting harder and harder to hide how you feel. Especially when he makes a dad joke that has your father howling with laughter. Sam nearly chokes on his beer. He clearly adores them, and it appears the sentiment is mutual.

And while your stomach feels like it’s flying, your heart suddenly takes a nosedive. The realization that he won’t be yours is heavy in your gut, icy tendrils slithering up to your throat to choke you. Pressure behind your eyes, a rising need to get away for a minute. It’s too much, knowing he isn’t yours when he damn well  _ should be _ .

The chair scraping across the floor cuts through the conversation, halts it as everyone watches you in confusion. Your eyes are shiny, blurring all of their faces, so you keep your head down with a muttered “excuse me”.

A sharp, deep breath that’s almost painful once you’re locked away in the upstairs bathroom. Where you know no one will hear you as you let out a sob into your arm. For a little while it’s a gross mess of snot and tears and smudged makeup you wipe away with a tissue, only to have another black rivulet sliding down your face. The pent-up longing, confusion, and outright  _ love _ comes pouring out, unable to be held back.

Nose stuffy, eyes crimson, you know you’re a mess and you’re going to have a hard time explaining it away. A rap of knuckles on the door, momentary fear that it’s Bucky coming to check on you, a rapid search for an excuse. More tissues swiped under your eyes and your best attempt at composure.

You open the door just a crack, surprised and relieved to see Sam instead of Bucky. His smile is sad, understanding, as if he knows exactly what’s in your head. You swing the door open a little wider, enough that he can get his body through to tug you into his chest. Large hands sliding up and down your back as you fight back another round of waterworks.

“This sucks, Sam,” you whisper. Eyes drift closed, squeeze, when he kisses your forehead and shushes you.

“I know, honey. You need to tell him, or don’t. Start dating, help yourself move on. Do  _ something  _ because I hate seeing you in pain.”

“I can’t tell him, Sam,” you murmur, stepping out of his space. You wipe your nose with your soggy tissue. “How could I put him in that position? I guess...maybe I’ll see if Wanda knows anybody…”

Sam smiles gently, tucks your chin with two fingers and nods his head towards the stairs. “C’mon. Let’s get through dinner and dessert.”

You’re nearly ready to cry again when Bucky lays worried eyes on you. You manage to choke it down, wave him off as you retake your seat. He tries to catch your eye but you avoid it, pointedly look to your other side. Your mom rests her hand on yours, a silent question. You smile faintly and nod, give the others a nod as well, and dinner resumes. It’s a little less light, less jovial, but soon Sam has everyone chortling again.

Your mood slightly improves once dinner is over and dessert begins. You’re laughing with Laura and Sam, Clint rolling his eyes because he’s the butt of the joke. Bucky’s a little quieter now, still perturbed from your earlier breakdown. You dread the car ride home, knowing he’ll ask you what it was about.

You gorge yourself on pie—apple  _ and _ pumpkin because your mom is an exceptional baker. By the time the dishes are cleared from the table, you feel like you’ll have to be rolled out of the house. But then you remember  _ who _ you’re riding home with and immediately volunteer to do the dishes for your parents if only to push that off a little longer.

Laura, bless her soul, doesn’t ask you about it. Instead, she asks you to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. Immediately you say yes, and the following conversation is a pleasant distraction from your earlier embarrassing episode. But there are only so many dishes and eventually, your time runs out.

Bucky and you bid goodbye to your family, your parents hoping they see Bucky again (thanks for that, Mom) and Clint promising to have a guys’ night soon. You barely feel his hand on your back as the two of you walk out to the car, breaths expelling in puffs in the cold November air. Immediately you crank the heat once the car is on, turning up the radio when a soft classic rock song comes on.

Bucky doesn’t ask you until you’re about halfway home. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

It’s slow, deliberate. The chance to spill your guts, risk everything. He’s giving you the choice and you almost want to take it.

Almost.

“I’m okay,” is your reply instead.  _ I’m fine _ is too much of a giveaway that you’re not. He’s quiet in the other seat, jaw muscle jumping and eyes sweeping outside the front windshield, but he nods, lets you have this because you  _ can’t _ . Can’t say it, can’t cross that line with no hope of stepping back over it.

In the hallway outside your apartments, he thanks you, kisses your cheek, and it feels an awful lot like goodbye.

Two weeks. Fourteen days, three hours, and thirty seven minutes have gone by since you’ve last seen Bucky. You’ve heard him, walking through his apartment, on the phone, his door opening and closing as he comes and goes.

But not once do you ever see him.

It’s obvious he’s avoiding you, and once the initial confusion and sadness fades, anger takes over. What right does he have to avoid you? You’ve done nothing wrong except maybe get your heart tangled up somewhere it shouldn’t have been, pined for someone who’s unavailable. But are those crimes really so heinous? 

When the anger fades, resignation settles in. You’d been too obvious, it seems, especially near the end, so he’s backed off, given you room to sort your feelings and shove them away. But it’s easier said than done. In the time you’ve lived here, Bucky has somehow taken root inside your heart, spread himself out within it and dug his thorns in. With each beat of your heart, they pinch a little more, leave a sharp ache in their wake. He’s implanted in you, unable to be shaken, like a giant redwood towering above the others, shading and guarding. But at the same time, smothering.

Another week goes by. The demo goes well; no injuries, and aside from a minor short-circuit, it’s a success. Investors scramble for possession of the super suit. It keeps you occupied, your mind off your suddenly-absent neighbor when before he only seemed to be ever-present. Always popping out of his apartment as you were leaving or arriving. At the mailbox when you came home from work. His absence is, to your displeasure, heavily felt.

Until there’s a knock on your door one Friday evening. If a knock could be hesitant, this one surely is. It’s slow, a long beat between the first and the second. Like the knocker almost wanted to turn tail after the first but changed his or her mind.

He stands before you, arms crossed, hands tucked under them, shoulders hunched and head ducked. Looking every bit a kicked puppy. At first, you’re ready to chew him out, let him have it for ignoring you when you’re not the one at fault.

But a sniffle from the hulking man before you makes you freeze.

“Buck?” you question on a whimper. He looks up, lifts his chin away from his chest, and your heart stutters, stalls completely at the tears running down his face. “Bucky, god, what happened? Come in.”

His arm is hot where you grab onto him, tug him into your apartment. His feet are bare, as if he hadn’t had time or care to find socks, much less shoes. You know you should be angry with him, are such underneath, but it’s easy to brush it aside when he’s so obviously hurting.

He takes up half your couch when you sit him down, offer him tea to which he barely nods. It only takes a few minutes, but Bucky’s damn near sobbing again when you return with the hot mug. It burns a ring into your coffee table but it’s ignored in favor of wrapping Bucky in the blanket you keep on the back of the couch for lazy movie nights in.

He tugs it up to his nose, calms himself by taking a few deep breaths. Those oceanic eyes glimmering again with tears and it breaks your heart all over again. You’ve never seen a man look so broken, so lost.

“Bucky?” you ask, lay a hand on the blanket over his knee. His eyelids flutter as he looks over at you, eyes clearing just a bit in realization, and he seems to recoil in embarrassment. It’s visible, the wall he tries to throw up but you grasp at his hand when he reaches to rub at his face. “Bucky, what happened?”

He sniffs hard, coughs a bit to clear his throat, and mumbles, “I don’t know why I came here.”

It stings, but he continues, “You’re mad at me. You should be.”

Fingers lace between his tattooed ones, squeeze reassuringly. “Bucky, the only thing I am right now is concerned. What happened?”

“Sharon came home, uh, yesterday. We’ve been fighting more.” You don’t say anything; you’ve heard him through the walls enough recently. “She came home, apologized, we made up. She went in to take a shower this morning, left her phone on the nightstand. You know, I never realized she locks her phone now. Never even crossed my mind. Has a password and everything. Well, it, uh, it went off, and I looked at it. The preview anyways. It was a photo, from what I could see from some guy named Rob.”

You feel like your heart plummets into your stomach. You don’t need him to finish before you’re wrapping yourself around him as he begins to cry again. Your own eyes burn with suffering, with the obvious heartbreak in his voice, in his eyes.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry,” you whisper. His hair is silk as your fingers card through it, nails scraping gently along his scalp, the back of his neck. 

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot against the skin there, and you have to push aside the realization that it brings goosebumps to your arms. His massive arms wind around you, tug you closer as he lets out all of his anguish. Months of arguing, of insecurity, of pointless arguments have all come to fruition, come to a sharp, jagged head that you swear you can feel yourself. It’s all laid out for you to feast your eyes upon.

His kiss is unexpected, makes your eyes fly open and hands to tightly grasp his wrists where his cup your face. It tastes of his tears, salty-sweet, and while your heart soars and tries to relish it, your brain jumps in.

“Bucky.” It’s weak on your tongue, but you tighten your grip on his wrists and attempt to pull back.

“Please,” is his sobbing beg, cheeks shiny with new tears, “please, I need…”

_ To feel something _ , are the unspoken words,  _ something besides this heartbreak. _

You give in. You let him pull your mouth back to his, let him part your lips with his tongue. It’s heaven, kissing him, and it’s so overdue. So  _ goddamn overdue _ . You whimper against his mouth, against the wet curl of his tongue, and you can feel when it shifts. The atmosphere, the kiss itself. It becomes less about curing his heartbreak and more about his desire for you.

He lifts you from the couch, whines when you wrap your legs around his waist and grind against him. Hands fisting in his hair to wrench his head back and latch your lips onto his neck. It’s exhilarating, having this mountain of a man at your control. He finds his way to your bedroom, grunts an apology when he knocks your bottom against the door frame. 

You sigh when he sits at the edge of your bed, his large hands cupping your ass and pulling you into him, into the hard length of him tenting his sweatpants. It’s too much and not enough all at once, feeling the firm planes of him under you. Shuddering when he slides his hands under your shirt, you let him strip you of it. You’re braless, your bare breasts on full display for him and the heat of his gaze raises goosebumps on your arms.

Part of you wants to cover up, but the sheer awe and adoration on his face makes you bold. You scramble off his lap, stand before him and tuck your fingers into the waistband of your own sweats. They pool at your feet, and you’re naked for him. His gaze alone takes you apart, like fire as it rakes over your form.

His broad chest heaves as he lifts a hand to reach for you, but you dodge it, sink gracefully to your knees instead. Bucky’s eyes go wide and his cheeks fill with pink. Jaw muscles jump with the need to tell you,  _ you don’t have to _ .

But you’ve been waiting to have Bucky, all of him, and you’d rather die than wait any longer.

He offers no resistance when you tug on his pant legs and raises his hips. They’re tossed elsewhere, and you smirk when you see he too is bare underneath. With one hand he reaches behind his head and tugs his shirt off, and dear God, you nearly want to faint.

Every inch of him is sculpted muscle, adorned beautifully with tattoos in both black and grey and in vivid color. He’s magnificent, and right now, he’s yours. The moan that pulls from his throat when you wrap your hand around him is music to your ears, a beautiful sound that sends wet heat straight to your core. You feel it between your thighs as you kneel, brace yourself on his thigh, nails scraping gently across the sensitive skin and the coarse hair there.

A small taste, a flick of your tongue along the underside of him. A strangled hiss from the man above you, who leans back on one hand, cards the other into your hair. You mouth at his length, velvet-covered hot steel, beautiful to match the rest of him. Tease him to madness with your tongue and hand. A curl of the hot muscle around his glistening tip and he tenses, falls back against the mattress.

“Fuck,” he nearly shouts as you take him in your mouth finally. Warm, wet, and soft as you sink down on him inch by agonizing inch. He peers down, almost comes on the spot when you gaze back at him, pretty pink lips stretched wide around the girth of him. He has to close his eyes as he groans, fingers clenching in your hair.

It’s torturous, the pace you set. A warm glide up and down his shaft, your free hand teasing his balls, heavy and soft in your hands. It’s maddening for you, the sounds you pull out of him cause your thighs to clench. He twitches in your mouth, heady and tangy and something you decide is just  _ him _ , and you pull away. His chest deflates as he exhales, a near whine in the back of his throat.

But then you’re straddling him, leaning over to kiss him deeply. Bucky’s inked arms snake around you, his stomach muscles shifting and clenching as he sits up, rolls the two of you over. He’s solid and heavy above you, wet from you where he pokes your inner thigh. He smiles against your mouth as you gasp at the intrusion of his fingers at your core. Slides them up and down and then finally, inside, and as he moves them, a twitch of your hips. It’s a beautiful fullness, but it isn’t enough.

“Bucky,” you moan, lay your head back and let him ravage your throat, your bare breasts. His tongue swirls a nipple, blunt teeth tug at the bud until it's pert and erect. You need him. Like air in your lungs you  _ need _ him. You tell him as much.

He resettles over you, withdrawing his fingers, ruts his length against you before taking himself in hand. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he presses in. A gasp that’s swallowed by his mouth, an echoing groan as your walls stretch to accommodate him. You’re so  _ tight _ around him, he thinks he might burst.

“G-God,” he sighs, forehead pressed to yours. He bottoms out, waits, meets your eyes when they flutter open. He’s so beautiful above you, dark hair in his face, nothing but pure want and love in his eyes. You see it, know he sees it mirrored on your own face.  _ No more hiding _ .

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he admits as his hips pull back. You shudder at the drag of his cock. He’s nearly completely gone from you and he halts there, just the smooth tip of him inside. He slams forward, punches a cry from your throat. “So long.”

A steady pace, slow but god, is it deep. Plants his knees wide and opens your legs wide. You’re so full, it’s so much, but you beg him for more.

“Oh -  _ Bucky, please _ .”

He braces his hand beside your head, the other pushing your hair out of your face as he leans on the elbow. Hands on his sides, his back, his ass, anywhere you can reach for  _ more _ . Buck your hips to meet him, send him deeper. He grits his teeth when you toss your head back and moan, loud enough he’d be able to hear it next door.

“ _ James _ .”

It sets something off in him, something primal. And in the back of his head he remembers how Sharon always called him James, but it has nowhere near the same effect as  _ you _ calling him that. It’s heaven on your tongue and he kisses you deep, tongue and clashing teeth and he pulls your hand from his back. Laces your fingers together and presses them deep into the mattress.  _ This _ is what it feels like, he knows now. Knows he’ll be ruined for anyone but you.

You’re seared on his heart, burn him from the inside out, and god, he  _ needs _ you to come because he can’t hold back.

“Fuck, gotta come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, breathing harshly into the shell of it. “Shit, ‘m so close.”

“Fill me, James, oh, I need it.” Your needy whines echo in the room, the burning in your belly about ready to erupt. He growls low, thrusts his hips even harder and faster against you until you cry out, see stars bursting behind your eyelids, and you clamp down him so tightly he comes, too.

His thrusts are languid now as he fucks you both through your climaxes. His arm trembles where he still grips your hand, and he slides off you to the side, tugs you with him while he’s still buried within you. He kisses your forehead, slick with sweat, and can feel your eyelashes against his throat.

When your heartbeats slow, the sweat dries on your skin, you feel the weight of what’s just happened. It sinks like a lead weight in your heart, and you feel your throat closing up, eyes burning with your shame. Bucky shifts, feels the wobble in your chin, but you pull away from him to sit at the edge of the bed.

He’s alarmed when he hears you sniffling, a hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He panics internally, the hurt slicing through him like a blazing knife. But he reaches out to touch you, flinches back when you shove off the bed. You begin to gather your clothes, meet his glistening eyes with tears of your own.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” you sob before whirling on your feet to shut yourself in the bathroom.

Bucky’s chest rattles, teeth gritting together as he bites back the emotion welling up.  _ You’re  _ sorry? For goddamn  _ what _ ?

He leaves your apartment in a noxious mix of anger, hurt, and confusion.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky’s head feels hazy, like he’s underwater and he can’t breathe. The feeling hasn’t stopped since he left your apartment a month ago.  _ A month _ . In that time frame, he’s fought with Sharon constantly and he almost feels badly for how loud they are, knowing you can probably hear everything.

And then he remembers your rejection and he doesn’t let himself feel quite so guilty.

It’s there, though, lurking, just like his nearly desperate need to just see you, talk to you, explain himself. Explain that his head hadn’t necessarily been in the right place for what had happened, to happen. He doesn’t regret it,  _ hell _ no; he just regrets the timing.

He can feel Sharon’s watery glare on the side of his face. He stands in the living room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s kicked her out, gave her a week to pack her shit and leave after she’d all but confirmed the suspicions that brought him to your door. Her time away from home, from him, had mostly been spent under the covers of  _ Rob _ , a coworker Bucky had met about three times before she stopped asking him to attend work functions with her.

He supposes he should’ve seen through that, but he’d been so reluctant to have it confirmed, that he’d pretended  _ out of sight, out of mind _ \- if he didn’t see it, it couldn’t be true.

He refuses to look at her, pointedly turns his head away when she approaches him in a last-ditch effort to save their relationship. The brush-off is a clear refusal to do just that, and she whimpers. His resolve hardens with the clench of his jaw, and he manages to turn frigid, dead eyes to her. It’s enough of a warning, and she sniffles once, leaves the apartment with her rolling suitcase behind her. The door closing behind her is all too loud in the silence.

Moments later, he hears the grumble of the moving truck, fading into the distance. Bucky’s resolve breaks, a deep gasping inhale that bends him at the waist. He braces his hands on his knees, lets himself sink to them on the carpet, fights for breath as he sobs. He curls his hands into his chest, fingers tight and digging crescent moons into his palms. He can’t find the words to explain how he’s feeling. It’s a tug of war within his chest, heart wanting to feel  _ happy _ \- happy that he no longer has to feel the stress of an oncoming fight. Yet it demands to feel  _ sad _ \- because such a large portion of his life is now gone...a woman he’d dedicated his time and his heart to, gone, and no matter how he wants to deny it, she’s left a hole. He feels  _ angry _ \- blind rage for giving his heart to a woman who’d merely played with it. Sure, they’d been happy once, but he feels so  _ angry _ that their relationship had taken the turn it did.

His apartment feels rather empty now; Sharon had done most of the furnishing, and she’s left bare walls and minimal furniture. He’s not sure he likes it, but he feels he deserves it. After all, he destroyed one of the closest friendships he’d ever had and had compelled his girlfriend to find love and comfort with another man. 

To his utter astonishment, he calls Sam a week later. While you had been his first thought, he bitterly accepted that you were avoiding him. And why shouldn’t you? He’d taken advantage of your friendship, crossed a line he’d been toeing dangerously from the start.

Sam is honest with him; he blames neither of you for what had occurred. Merely points out that  _ communication _ would have been ideal, both between the two of you and between Bucky and Sharon. He asks Bucky how he plans to fix it. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t even know if it  _ can _ be fixed. Sam assures him it can be if he just  _ talks _ to you.

He’s not ready to take that step.

You, meanwhile, leave for work earlier than is required in order to avoid Bucky. It’s childish, a little petty, but you think you deserve it. How could you possibly look at him the same? After what you did?

You bury yourself at work, lose sleep over both the guilt and the need to just  _ see _ him. Your coworkers, you know, can see the deep circles beneath your eyes you barely try to hide, can see the hunch in your shoulders, weighed down by a toxic cocktail of emotions you haven’t really wanted to sort through just yet.

Nights are spent in front of your TV, trying hard not to think about the utter silence next door. You heard them, a few weeks back, shouting and screeching and bellowing until it went utterly silent. The slam of a door indicative that someone had stormed out. You wonder if he’d ended it then, or if she did. If she held her infidelity over his head, pointed out all the things the other man did right, made him feel small. 

You hope Bucky had been the one to end it, for purely selfless reasons. He deserves to reclaim that sense of control, to not be humiliated on top of bowing under the heartbreak of her infidelity. You hope he’s okay, that he isn’t suffering too much over the turn his life has taken, the trust that has been betrayed.

You miss him. Beneath the guilt and the sadness and the anger at yourself, you miss him. He’s so close and yet, there’s a mountain between you. A mountain that you know both of you could climb but don’t. Fear of misunderstanding, of rejection, of further destroying beyond repair the fragile ties of your friendship. Or what remains of it.

New York is cold now, a bitter bite to the air that forces you to don a scarf and a hat when you leave for work. Christmas is fast approaching, and you’re looking forward to getting away from your apartment for a few days. Sam’s been incessant in his begging, asking to see you despite living in the same city.

On the topic of Bucky, Sam treads lightly. He knows you won’t do anything if you’re pushed into it, but he’s  _ really _ tempted to come whack you over the head for your stubbornness. Though he’s told you otherwise, said stubbornness with the added dose of remorse has you convinced Bucky hates you, resents you for selfishly having taken something you shouldn’t have. 

No matter how much he begs, pleads, even shouts sometimes, you just won’t listen.

Wanda has, somehow, convinced you to go out tonight. You hadn’t wanted to humor her; you’d much rather go home, bury yourself under blankets and self-pity. But something in the way her eyes shine, imploring and sad at the same time, you find it hard to say no. Besides, time away from your apartment is what you’re after. Perhaps it’ll do you some good.

She brings you to an upscale bar, a place with dim lighting but a buzzing atmosphere. You let her order you a margarita with salt on the rim, even humor her with a shot of Jack that goes down warm and smooth. Channeling your early college days, you let loose, laugh loudly, even flirt with a guy who offers to buy you a drink. It’s empty flirtation, you know; you’ve given your heart to someone who unknowingly has it, but tonight, Bucky is far from your mind.

You play a round of pool with the man who bought you a drink. Derek, you think his name is. He’s funny, polite, and charming, and it’s all too easy to get caught up in his green eyes. When you catch yourself wishing they were blue, you order another drink.

The hangover you’re greeted with the next morning isn’t the worst you’ve had, but it’s proving to be a pain in the ass when even opening your eyes has a solid  _ thud _ echoing in your skull. It takes a minute to realize your phone is vibrating on your nightstand.

“Hullo?” you mumble, muffled by the pillow.

“Just how long are you going to suffer in self-pity?”

“Good morning to you too, Sam.”

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“It’s a bit too early for this, isn't it?”

“Not when your best friend bombards you with drunk texts talking all about how she fucked up and  _ Sam, will he ever talk to me again _ or  _ Sam, how do I say I’m sorry _ ? You know, I know you’re stubborn but even this is a bit much for you. If you’re resorting to drunk texts, then you  _ need to talk to him _ .” He enunciates each word separately, his tone short and harsh, and you momentarily feel guilty for assaulting him with so much.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you whimper, and he sighs on the other line. Unbidden, you’re crying again and it only makes your headache worse.

“It’s all right, honey. But sooner or later you’re going to have to do  _ something _ . Whether that’s move or just, you know, talk to him like the adult you are, that’s for you to decide. Although I’m almost ready to intervene and make you talk to him.”

“I don’t even know what I’d say, Sam, even if I was ready to talk to him.”

“How about starting with ‘I’m sorry’ and see where it goes?”

You know he’s right, yet there’s still a blockage there. The fear that your friendship with Bucky is over, the trepidation in putting your feelings out there only to have him tell you  _ it _ was a mistake, the harsh truth that, no matter what road you take, your friendship is changed regardless.

It’s all dependent on your next steps. Continue to hide or grow a pair and talk to him.

Sam’s silent on the other line, you realize, and somehow you know he knows what you’re thinking. Knows your decision before you’ve even voiced it aloud.

“I’ll talk to him,” you murmur, more to convince yourself of it than him. He, the cheeky shit, grins knowingly.

“I know you will. But I’m proud of you anyways.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to him. Just...not today. My head is going to explode.”

He groans. “Fine. But no more excuses.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Love you.”

You smile softly, grateful for Sam’s unwavering friendship. “Love you too. I’ll let you know if he decides to never speak to me again or pitches me off his fire escape.”

He snorts as you hang up, wince as your head aches again. Blanket wrapped around you, you leave your bed for water and to relocate to the couch, nurse your hangover in front of the TV for mind-numbing reruns.

The next day, you spend twenty minutes in front of your bathroom mirror giving yourself a pep talk, running over everything you want to say to Bucky. It all sounds terrible, but it’s what you’ve got to work with. Sliding your hands over the button-up you wear, you nod confidently to yourself before whirling on your heel and leaving the apartment.

Only, you can’t knock once you’re in front of his door. You’re frozen, terrified, secretly hoping he isn’t home. But that isn’t the case because you can just make out the sound of the TV on low behind the wood.

Deep inhale, long exhale, two knocks spaced a couple seconds apart. God, even your  _ knocks _ are hesitant.

A few moments pass, and you find it within you to knock again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

His voice makes you shiver. You haven’t heard it in so long, hearing it feels like you’re breathing again. You can hear him getting closer to the door.

Breathing stops altogether when his eyes meet yours, wide, frozen, curious, even a little relieved at the sight of you. Until the mask slips over them and he stiffens his stance.

“You’re not the pizza guy.” Short, to the point, an almost  _ you’re not welcome _ .

You shrug lamely. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He crosses his arms, tattoos billowing with the movement, and leans against his door frame. “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

Your hands cramp where you’ve been wringing them unknowingly. You jerk them apart, shove them in your jeans pockets instead. He’s waiting, and you feel like you can’t speak.

“U-Um, could, could we talk?” He quirks an eyebrow and your voice takes on a whimper. “Please?”

Wordlessly, he steps aside, sweeps out an arm to let you in. You’ve never been inside Bucky’s apartment. All of your previous coffee dates had been spent in yours, usually because you had furniture to be assembled. His place looks...bare. Minimally decorated. You half-expected Sharon to brighten up the place with flowers or paintings. But there’s nothing.

Shyly, you face him. His arms are crossed again and he’s been appraising you the same way you’d been his apartment.

“Where’s Sharon?”  _ Because I can’t say this with her here _ .

The muscle in his defined jaw ticks in annoyance as he shifts from foot to foot, drops his arms to put his hands in his pockets. 

“Sharon...Sharon moved out. Not too long ago. We, uh, we’re not together anymore.”

“Oh,” you whisper, silently cursing when your heart gives an excited lurch. “Um, I’m sorry?”

He looks up at you from under his lashes. “Are you?”

Tension fills the room. He isn’t talking about Sharon and you damn well know it. Nodding slowly, you sigh.

“I am sorry, Bucky. For...for Sharon, for...for being a shitty friend when you needed a good one. For taking advantage of you. I—”

“Wait, what?” he interjects, straightening and looking you head-on. You can’t look at him, guilty tears rising in your eyes as you look anywhere but at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I crossed a line, Bucky, one I shouldn’t have. I...It was selfish of me.”

“Selfish how exactly? Because if I remember correctly,  _ I _ kissed  _ you _ .”

“But I let it go...there. You needed a friend and I just selfishly took advantage of that. It wasn’t right, and I’m sorry.”

Bucky gapes at you, jaw dropped and blue eyes shining. With what, you’re not sure. Then, he starts laughing. Raucous and hard enough that he bends at the waist. You’re offended.

“I’m sorry that’s  _ funny _ to you, Bucky. I’m trying to apologize for being an asshole and you’re just laughing at me. So, thank you for further humiliating me. I think I’ll be leaving now—”

You don’t get far. His hand wraps around your arm and tugs you back into him with a muffled  _ oof _ . His other arm snakes around your waist and while your body warms with being touched by him again, you’re still annoyed he’s still chuckling.

Despite it all, you did miss the sparkle in his eyes.

His grin splits his face, only widens when you try to break free from him. “I’m not laughin’ at you, sweetheart. I’m laughing at this...situation. Here I was thinkin’ you were mad at me because  _ I _ crossed a line. I thought you thought I was just using you. But I gotta tell ya, I’m ecstatic to know that’s not the case at all.”

You stare up at him, bask in the twinkle that’s back in his eye, the brightness of his smile. Then his words truly sink in, and you bury your head in his chest as you shake with laughter yourself. You’re embarrassed, surely, but the situation is far too comical not to laugh.

It sets Bucky off again and the two of you roar in his living room, still embracing one another. You’re breathless, chest and ribs aching from laughing so much, but finally, the two of you calm down.

“We’re fucking idiots, aren’t we?” you giggle, tipping your head back to look up at him. He’s still smiling at you, but there’s a new fondness in his eyes that you could, quite frankly, get used to seeing. 

“That we are. But the important question is - are we forgiven?”

Grinning, you reach up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the back of his head, lightly tug to pull him down to you until his lips hover just above yours.

“I think that can be arranged.”

It’s heaven when his mouth finally presses to yours, soft, yet able to set your heart to racing. You smile against his mouth, bask in his warmth.

“If it wasn’t obvious,” he murmurs against your mouth, “I love you.”

Heart fluttering and tears of sheer joy stinging your eyes, you kiss him again. “I love you, too.”


End file.
